Broken Web Shattered Chain
by I-Married-My-Fandoms
Summary: Three years have passed and Sherlock finally comes back Home. But something is Wrong... ANGST/Post-Reichenbach


I've recently been thinking about this series and how John, specifically, will fare with the loss of Sherlock. I warn you now, there is major angst in this and it is not to be taken lightly. All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC, not me. Please read and review.

To the soldier, the civilian

The martyr, the victim

This is war

It's the moment of truth and the moment to lie

The moment to live and the moment to die

– 30 Seconds To Mars (This Is War)

"Three long years." Sherlock stated out loud as he piled out of the cab that had dropped him off in front of his previous home at Baker Street. "But the web the spider had weaved has finally been deconstructed." Sherlock paid the cabbie and grabbed his bags from the boot. He'd had to change in those three long years since his 'fall' from St Bart's roof. He'd dyed his hair, which was now a rather lovely ginger, he'd grown a moustache and beard, sporting a rather elegant goatee, and he'd donned slim glasses, perched on his long nose that he would look over.

His key still worked, so he slipped it into the lock and opened the door. As he walked in, he took in everything around him, the hall, the stairs, the landing, the mirror against the wall, the door leading to Mrs Hudson's rooms. He was only mildly surprised when said door opened abruptly. Martha Hudson stood, in rather rumpled clothes (which Sherlock noted had hastily been thrown on) looking rather startled.

"Sh-… Sherlock?" her voice quivered, eyes slightly widening at the man before her as Sherlock smiled widely, dropping his bags and grasping her bout the shoulders, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"So good to see you again Mrs Hudson. I know, quite a shock, me not actually being dead, but I'm sure I can sit and explain everything to you over tea and biscuits later on. For now, I'd like nothing more than to unpack my things." Sherlock then grabbed his bags and nearly danced up the seventeen steps to his flat. He missed the tears springing into Martha's eyes.

Sherlock pounced into the front room, dropping his bags and looking around. His flat was much like he had remembered it. His Union Jack pillow was thrown on the couch, his clutter, his mess, his experiments, all there. Sherlock stopped, frowning when he realized something was amiss. Where was John's tea mug? Where was John's coat or Sherlock's old scarf which he had left with John? Where was John?

Sherlock had only had one contact at a time, first it was Molly, who had helped him to jump off of the roof and hide the body, making it look like it had actually worked, and three weeks after it had been Mycroft, who had helped fund Sherlock out of the city and country to deconstruct Moriarity's web. After he had started his contact with Mycroft, he had stopped his contact with Molly, knowing full well that she would keep his secret. Mycroft and he had had little contact besides monetary trade, and Sherlock had been happy about that.

"John?" Sherlock asked the empty flat rather loudly, wondering where his flatmate could possibly be. He was ignoring what his eyes were telling him. He didn't want to notice the collection of dust he noticed on the communal desk under the window, or that on the floor there where no footprints or even management of sweeping had been attempted. "John?" he asked again, looking about, voice sounding a bit weaker, quieter. Sherlock rushed back down the stairs, banging open Mrs Hudson's door and finding the woman sitting on her couch and sobbing into a handkerchief. Sherlock noticed that it was the one that John and he had gotten for her on their first Christmas together as a 'family'.

He came and sat down next to her, startling the poor woman for a second time that day.

"O-Oh Sherlock…" her voice was shaking through her sobs. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because of his return or not anymore. He couldn't be sure without enough data, and as it so appeared to him, he was missing a large chunk of data. He sat with her for a while, rubbing a hand gently over her back as she continued to sob. It took about half an hour before she calmed down and Sherlock tried to question her but she wouldn't answer, no matter how hard he tried.

Sherlock had only stayed with Mrs Hudson a little while longer before he'd left to see Mycroft. He needed to find out from his brother what was happening and Mrs Hudson was not going to give him those answers.

He'd arrived by cab, still in his disguise [he'd yet to dye his hair back or shave] outside of the Diogenes Club, where he knew that his brother frequented. He walked purposefully into the absolutely silent building as if he owned the place, looking around for his brother. He knew the rule, silence was required, and so he moved quickly and quietly through the groups of men, sitting there with their newspapers and laptops. Sherlock threw a condescending look around the room, not spotting his brother he stormed out silently. Sherlock walked down the hall to the office doors, immediately knowing which one his brother was in left by the obvious clues, and threw said door open. Mycroft looked up, blinking comically at his brother, but motioned for him to close the door. Sherlock did so, all be it begrudgingly, and then proceeded to enter the room properly before sitting across from his brother.

"Explain." Was all Sherlock said, crossing one long leg over the other, back ramrod straight. He was too tense at the current situation to even try to relax, not to mention the fact that he knew he couldn't trust his brother at the moment.

"It was for your protection, so that you finished dismantling the web. There was no other choice my brother, if you'd known—" Sherlock cut him off.

"Known what? What is it that you're not telling me Mycroft?" the edge in his tone told Mycroft that his younger brother meant business, but the elder frowned.

"I thought Mrs Hudson would have informed you of the circumstances… oh dear." Sherlock's hands were in his lap, laced together and so tight that his slightly now-tanned skin from his time abroad was turning ashen white.

"Mrs Hudson sobbed on her couch for half of an hour after I returned to Baker Street. She didn't say anything more." Mycroft gave a heavy sigh, sagging in his very expensive chair.

"I'm sorry brother, but this is something that I cannot help you with. You'll have to seek guidance from another." And with those final words, Mycroft picked up the folder he had been going over when Sherlock had entered the room, proceeding to completely ignore his younger brother for the text in front of him. Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get anything else out of the elder Holmes, and so he stood, angrily storming out of the room and the building.

Sherlock was running out of options to get the information he needed. There was a heavy pressure on his chest and he wasn't sure why it was there. He knew something was Wrong. But what? He was sitting in the back of another cab, phone out and sending a text.

_John? Where are you? You weren't home when I returned –SH_

He waited for a few moments before he received a text, opening it with anticipation.

_ERROR18562: The mobile device you have tried to contact is no longer in service. Please make sure you have typed the correct number and send the message again._

Sherlock stared at the message in shock. Had John gotten a new phone and changed his number? Why would he have done that? Why hadn't Mrs Hudson talked to him? Why wouldn't Mycroft answer his questions? He had only one more person that he could possibly go to.

Sherlock arrived at New Scotland Yard and rushed out of the cab, tossing money at the man before slamming the door. He walked rather briskly into the building, ignoring the people around him and heading directly towards Detective Inspector Lestrade's office. He was about to make it into the glass room when he was stopped by none other than Sargent Sally Donavan.

"I'm sorry sir, but you're not allowed in this part of the building. If you'd like I can bring you back to the receptionist and she can direct you to the proper area." Sherlock was mildly shocked that he wasn't recognized, but then remembered that he was still in his disguise. She hadn't recognized him at all, despite the obvious cheek bones, his oddly coloured eyes, height and build. Sherlock really didn't have time to waste on her.

"I see you've finally given up shagging Anderson, good. He was bringing you down." Sally's shocked face was exactly what Sherlock was looking for as he pushed past her and into Lestrade's office.

Greg Lestrade was behind his desk, enjoying his morning coffee and looking over some case briefs from the past week when the man burst into his office. Lestrade looked up, slightly recognising the man in front of him but not being able to place where from.

"Can I help you with something?" Lestrade asked rather politely. The man looked haggard, exhausted and scared; he didn't want to make the man any more uncomfortable or manic than he was already.

"Where is John?" the voice was a dead giveaway. Lestrade instantly knew where he had known the man from.

"Sherlock? Oh God, you're alive? What the hell happened? It's been three years!" Greg was enraged and ecstatic at the same time. He realised that he'd been lied to for the past three years, had grieved for a long amount of time in fact, but was all too happy that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was shaking now, not having gotten his answer and ignoring the questions that Lestrade was spouting at him.

"Where. Is. John?" Sherlock asked again, shoulders now shaking and fists clenched so tight his nails had cut into his palms and they were now bleeding. At hearing the question, Greg paled.

"No one… no one told you… oh God Sherlock." Greg stood, moving from behind his desk and grabbing onto Sherlock's arm by the elbow. "You… you have to see it. I won't hold it back from you." Sherlock was shaking now, he was scared. Why was Lestrade being so ambiguous about where John was? Greg led Sherlock by the elbow out of the office and down the hall towards the record room. They entered and the receptionist gave Lestrade a quirked eyebrow as he dragged another man along with him. Sherlock was led back to the end of a row and down an isle half way before Lestrade stopped, reached onto a shelf and pulled off a folder. Sherlock, at this point, was thoroughly confused, a feeling of dread and anguish pulling at the pit of his stomach.

"Lestrade… why are we here? How is this going to tell me where John is?" Sherlock's voice was low and shaking, obviously showing the fear he was desperately trying to hide.

"Sherlock you need to look at this…" Sherlock's hand was shaking as he grabbed the folder, opening it. The first thing he saw was John's medical record along with a military dress photo. Next to it was a letter, standard paper from John's favourite shop in his neat handwriting. Sherlock noticed the specks of blood on the corner and edges of the note as he began to read.

_To My Sherlock,_

_It would have been two years today, you know that? Two years we would have known each other. Two years since I'd been invalided home and looking for a flat. Two years since Mike had introduced us. _

_I thought you were mad, you know that? When we first met, two years ago. You were rambling on, going off on your violin and silence. Your worst traits apparently. Flat mates, and here I thought you were mad. As soon as we met I knew that you were special... I wasn't sure how special at the time but the two years since that day has given me ample time to think about you and what an important person you were in my life. _

_I don't know if I ever told you this Sherlock but after the war, one of the things I suffered from was PTSD. I was contemplating killing myself that morning before I met you. I reached into my desk drawer, pulled out my laptop and there it was, my Browning, sitting there just tempting me to take it, clean the firing mechanism, reload before I would shove it in my mouth and- well that really doesn't need to be explained, now does it? I really didn't have anything else to live for. I was a Doctor who was out of practice, had no job, but more than that, I was a soldier who had been sent home because he could no longer perform the duties that he needed to. I was shot and I know you knew that I was left handed, something like that doesn't get by you, but it was my left shoulder. I could never really practice surgery again. _

_I was so lonely. I really didn't have anyone any more. Sure, there was Harry but her alcoholism would always keep us apart. We never really did get on anyway. And then there was you, out of the blue, dropped into my life... and it was all suddenly better. _

_You're gone... now you're gone and I know you weren't a fake. I don't care what everyone else thinks because I know that I'm right. You, Sherlock, were not a fake. You were real. _

_You will always be real._

_I was so lonely and I owe you so much... I miss you terribly. I get these bad thoughts, like before we met. I have friends now, I have Greg and Molly, Mrs Hudson, but they don't really matter... because you're not here anymore. _

_I can't do this anymore Sherlock... it's really hard... I miss you..._

_I'm sorry…_

_-John Hamish Watson, M.D._

Sherlock was clutching the folder so tightly he was shaking. He hadn't noticed the tears streaming down his face until one collided with the edge of the manila folder. He couldn't stop himself as he tore through the folder, moving onto reports, statements, and finally photographs. The scene played before Sherlock was gruesome. It all took place in John's upstairs bedroom. John was a medical man, and therefore knew exactly where would cause the most bleeding. There was a photo of the table side dresser; medication that Sherlock knew would cause numbness. A scalpel that had most likely come from John's personal stash was on the bed, stained with blood. John was there, sitting up against the headboard, shoulders slumped and head lulled to the side. He looked almost peaceful and asleep; but the wide, open and empty eyes, the blood drenching his clothing and body, that all made Sherlock finally realize fully what had happened. There was the note Sherlock had just read on the other half of the bed next to John. Finally, resting gently in John's left hand was his military standard Browning AL19. The medical report stated that John had taken the pills so that he wouldn't feel the pain. He then proceeded to cut from wrist to elbow on both arms along with his femoral artery on the inside of both legs. There was a hole with burn marks around it directly over John's heart on his chest.

Sherlock was drowning.

Was he breathing anymore?

The floor made contact with his knees and the photographs slid across the floor from being dropped. Sherlock was clutching his chest, the folder forgotten, and sobbing, tears streaming down his face. Greg was there, Sherlock knew, but only at the back of his mind. John… was gone? His John… was dead. Had killed himself in fact… because he couldn't live without Sherlock?

Sherlock flinched at the feeling of arms wrapping around his shoulders, trying to move away and finding that he couldn't. Greg hugged him tightly, pulling him to his chest, both men shaking now.

"I know how hard this is. God, I was called in on the scene because it was at Baker Street… I got ill in the hall because of it and was taken off the case. Dimmock was put in charge but it didn't matter, it was obvious that John had done that himself. God Sherlock… if I had known you were still alive… if _he _had known… it's been two and a half years by now. I'm so sorry… I'm sorry." The two men had a long cry together on the floor of the records room before collecting themselves enough to put the folder away and go back to Greg's office.

One of Mycroft's black cars had picked Sherlock up from the Yard and taken him to where John had been buried. Sherlock had thought it would be in the veteran cemetery… but he was wrong. There, next to the headstone that Sherlock had put up after his 'death' was John's. There were flowers surrounding it, some slightly wilted, others more fresh. Small rocks and shiny coins had been placed on top of the head stone in remembrance. The stone was a beautiful onyx with the name "Captain John H. Watson, M.D." inscribed on the top in plain text. Beneath that were three more inscriptions along with his date of birth and his date of death. The three inscriptions read '_A_ _Soldier. A Doctor. A Friend.' _

Sherlock found himself collapsing onto his knees for the second time that day, staring blankly at the reflective surface of John's headstone. The tears were nonstop now, he knew he would eventually stop crying when they had run dry, but for now he let them fall.

"This is my fault." He spoke out loud to the grave marker. To John. "I've done this to you. I'm sorry. I was an idiot… I should never have done that to you. I killed you John… I killed you when I left three years ago. And I'm sorry. I hope that you can forgive me." Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes with his jacket sleeve, making his already puffy red eyes redder. Mycroft walked over and stood behind his brother, impeccable posture and ever-present umbrella still giving the British Government a presence of power.

"Well, baby brother? What shall you do now?" the voice was cold, if not a bit worried. Mycroft didn't want to be observed as kind, but he had a soft spot for his younger brother… and it had killed him the past two and a half years not telling his sibling that the man's best friend had committed suicide because he was depressed.

"I want to be with him… I want to go back to John." Sherlock's voice was flat, emotionless, and direct. He knew exactly what he was saying… and he also knew at how his brother would react.

"Are you saying that you are going to try and kill yourself Sherlock?" Mycroft knew exactly what his brother was saying… but he needed to hear the words directly from his mouth before he did anything about them.

"Yes… I'm going to kill myself Mycroft." Mycroft gave a heavy sigh before giving an, apparently, invisible signal. Two large men appeared at their sides and hefted Sherlock to his feet to face Mycroft.

"I'm sorry brother, but that is not acceptable. I understand that you are feeling at a loss because of Doctor Watson's death but that does not justify you killing yourself. I'm afraid, against your wishes, I am going to have to have you institutionalized until you are deemed fit and stable enough to live on your own again. My apologies." At the end of the short speech, the two men dragged Sherlock off, who didn't have it in him to struggle, back to a black car, where they put him in the back seat and buckled him in.

Sherlock never got over the loss of his one and only friend John Watson, and was never released from the medical institution he was locked in. Sherlock attempted suicide at least a dozen times, half a dozen different ways and was never successful. He eventually just gave up trying to kill himself and just, in fact gave up. Greg would visit, so would Mrs Hudson and Molly and Mycroft but Sherlock never even acted like they were there.

He was waiting to see one person again.

He was waiting for John.


End file.
